


Strange Bedfellas

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Bipolar Dean, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Professional Cuddler Dean, Professional Cuddlers, Sad Castiel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5172908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You mean the agency didn’t send you a confirmation?” he asks, stopping just short of Castiel’s unmade bed, brows furrowed. Through a mouthful of walnuts, he points to him and says, “You requested me, huggy bear.”</p><p>I certainly would’ve remembered a green-eyed Casanova coming priority, he thinks just as it hits him. Shit. “You are not a box of kittens.”</p><p>Or the one where Cas uses the wrong service and ends up with more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Bedfellas

**Author's Note:**

> Adding onto the Professional Cuddler idea by reintroducing Castiel's fascination with furry pets was a good call, thanks to the person who provided that idea.

It’s not like Castiel has a personal vendetta against attractive men.

They may be the bane of his existence, but they’re not… it’s not like they’re—okay, let’s start over.

Like most natural disasters, it all started with a dick. It was Christmas weekend and Castiel was volleying between helping Aaron, the new employee who was more interested in the dirt between his fingernails than helping the customer to his immediate right, a sociopathic asshole holding up the line with his outrageous demands to give him his money back or he would call security and clicking away on his keyboard with a _the-customer-is-always-right_ smile.

As fate would have it (the cold-hearted bitch), the keyboard froze and left him with a face-full of steroid penis. Aaron (the _one time_ the guy decided to be useful) was the first to gasp. From there, everyone both inside and behind the counter—including Sociopathic Asshole #1—fell silent, and went from zeroing in on the licentious noises escaping the tiny laptop to the freak of nature at the front desk.

Needless to say, _Daddy’s Delectables_ is in his spammed folder.

The one thing he can’t drag into his spam folder, however, is the life-sized sex doll standing in his doorway.

Said mannequin is tall with fair skin, short sandy brown hair underneath an olive mesh beanie to match his ridiculously green eyes, and freckles like skipping stones scattered across the parts of his body that aren’t covered in winter wear. And yes, he’s definitely coveting some bulk goods underneath that coat.

He’s even more startled when the stranger’s lips fold for his pearly whites, and he speaks, a low baritone noise that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention: “Are you _Cass-teel_ Novak? I’m Dean.”

Intelligibly, Castiel says, “Huh?”

“Oh, sorry if I butchered your name,” the guy, Dean, amends. “Normally my clientele aren’t mythology buffs like me. I dig dead languages. Latin is my guilty pleasure. I’ve probably said your name in a handful of incantations. I’m a little rusty, though.”

Castiel shakes his head from a few highly inappropriate thoughts, wondering how this… _whatever this is_ escalated so quickly, eyes wandering after the man ambling through his place like he pays the rent. “I’m sorry, who—are you eating _nuts_?” he blasphemes after a jaw-breaking _crunch_ resounds through the studio.

Dean looks down at his cupped hands. Residing in them are, indeed, nuts. “Sorry, are you allergic?”

“No, I’m—that’s not the point. Who are you?”

“I just told you, the name’s Dean.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Alright, smartass, I mean _why_ are you here?”

“You mean the agency didn’t send you a confirmation?” he asks, stopping just short of Castiel’s unmade bed, brows furrowed. Through a mouthful of walnuts, he points to him and says, “ _You_ requested _me,_ huggy bear.”

 _I certainly would’ve remembered a green-eyed Casanova coming priority,_ he thinks just as it hits him. Shit. “You are _not_ a box of kittens.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, it was my fault, I shouldn’t have—let’s start over,” he says, humiliation smothering his cheeks. Dean swivels around, dropping another nut in his mouth as Castiel holds out his hand. “Castiel, impulsive buyer.”

Dean wipes his hand on his jeans and takes his Castiel’s in a way that’s more familiar than friendly, the way he extends the pads of fingers to his wrists and lingers there for a moment. “Nice to meet you, _Cas_. Dean. Mechanic by day, Professional Cuddler by night.”

“Professional Cuddler?”

“I know, a box of kittens sounds way cooler.”

“No,” Castiel says, surprising himself as the corners of his mouth curve into a smile. “I like it.”

“So… shall we?”

Newly christened Cas stares at the handsome stranger dumbfounded. Before he can think about rejoining with something that’ll wet his whistle, make him seem like  _less_ of an idiot, Dean shrugs his coat and beanie off and plops onto his mattress. He’s half on the comforter and half where Cas is certain his pubic hairs are housed. Dean doesn’t seem to notice though, the way he’s wriggling on the bed like a worm on a hook.

Cas claps his hands together, pretending not to enjoy the sight as much as he is. “Oh, right, um…”

“Don’t worry.”

“What?”

Dean’s propped up on his side, peering up at Cas with a small grin. “You don’t have to be worried. Everyone’s a little anxious their first time.” Cas tries not to think back to when he lost his virginity to a brothel girl and those same words were spoken to him. “I’ll let you be the big spoon if you want.”

Cas shakes his head as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Does your clientele usually consist of guys?”

“Sure,” he replies, unwavering, “not all of ‘em are as cute as you, though.”

Cas grits through a sharp laugh as he lets his hands run amuck, from his messy bedhead to his ridiculously _hot_ face, digits dragging over the dark crescents hanging under his night-colored eyes with a weighty sigh.

Dean must sense his discomfort because next Cas feels a thumb pressing into the small of his back, soothing, he thinks, and doesn’t let him stop. “What got you into the world of cuddling?”

Dean’s little message stops. “I’m manic depressive. I can’t exactly afford medication on my salary; let alone a therapist, so on my depressive days…”

“This is your therapy.” Cas chuckles, “Here I was thinking _I_ had a bad week.”

“What happened?”

“Lost my job to some pop-up ad sponsored by a gay porn site.”

There isn’t a laugh or a snarky comment, just a shift in the sheets beneath him. “Wanna hug it out?”

This time, Cas doesn’t hesitate crawling into his arms, only instead of holding each other so they’re two crescents facing the eminent night sky, Cas shifts so he’s facing Dean—two braces enclosing the common denominator between them.

Cas wants to ask if this is okay, but Dean already has his arms snaked around his back, so he hooks one arm around his shoulder, anchoring him them to the bed. Dean’s smell—rich with aftershave, whiskey, and motor oil—tickles its way into his nose and Cas smiles into his neck.

He feels the other man’s heart, and instead of sputtering like his Continental parked in the garage, it beats languorously, less measured by the time falling around them like broken glass and Cas is overcome with just how normal this feels. They’re two consenting adults, finding shelter in each other’s bodies.

Cas’s computer pings an hour after Dean leaves. He plots over to the kitchen table and finds a satisfaction survey staring back at him. “ _How would you rate your cuddle buddy?”_

 _10_ /10.

_“Any comments, feel free to leave them below.”_

_He was by far cuddlier than a box of kittens. –Cas_

 

 

 


End file.
